


How to warm your Bucky; now and then

by Claudia_flies



Series: MCU Kink Bingo [7]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Christmas Fluff, Fast times at Avengers Tower, Fluff and Smut, M/M, MCU kink bingo 2017, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, The Holidays, Touch-Starved, Ugly Holiday Sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 16:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13127535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claudia_flies/pseuds/Claudia_flies
Summary: Christmas cheer and all that other crap; or how the Winter Soldier literary warms up.





	How to warm your Bucky; now and then

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zilia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zilia/gifts).



> For my enabler, my muse, my fandom other half, Zilia. I could not do this without you! I hope you enjoy <3
> 
> Also, for MCU Kink Bingo square 'The Holidays'. 
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely NurseDarry.

 

It’s snowing in New York, which in itself is not unusual for December 24th.

The Tower is decked out to the nines, inside and out. Pepper had rolled her eyes at the light show outside, but had humored Tony because “it’s the season of goodwill, I suppose.” There’s trees set up in everyone’s individual apartment and a humongous one in the common room. There’s candles, decorations, and tasteful wreaths picked out by Pepper, and food, so much food. The tables and fridges groan under the weight of everything.

The sight of it all makes Steve strangely sad.

Christmas was never particularly luxurious for them before, but it was always spent surrounded by family. Bucky’s rambunctious siblings and aunts and uncles. Steve and his mother always welcome at the table. Everyone from their street attending the midnight mass and then heading home to celebrate. They didn’t have much but what they did was always shared with others.

Compared to that, the Tower feels cold and lifeless. Steve knows he’s being unfair, no one's memories of childhood Christmases live up to adulthood. He would have probably heard the same sentiment from Winnie, who slaved in the kitchen for hours and hours for their Christmas meal. She would have probably murdered someone for Tony’s army of cooks, Steve thinks with a smile. But even with everything, Steve can’t help wanting to recreate that feeling, no matter how selfish that is. Especially this year.

Because there's someone else at the Tower now, someone else, who by all rights should remember those days, but doesn’t. Steve wants him to remember so desperately, but that too feels selfish. Bucky hasn’t asked, hasn’t expressed too much enthusiasm for regaining those memories.

The object of Steve’s thoughts is sitting on the wide sofa in the middle of the common room, looking murderous in a tartan sweater with an embroidered picture of an enormous walrus wearing a Santa hat. Steve isn’t entirely sure if the murderous expression is because of the sweater or due to the noxious Christmas music Tony has insisted on playing in the common areas since December first.

“Hey Buck,” he says, but Bucky just grunts in return. He isn’t much for talking these days. Steve’s accepted that, he really has, but he still hoards all the words Bucky’s spoken. Even those emotionless mutterings of “copy” over the intercom during missions, when Bucky is busy taking down each and every member of Hydra he can get into the scope of his Barrett M82A1M.

Before, Steve wouldn’t have thought twice about slumping down on the couch next to Bucky, or bumping shoulders with him and teasing him for the sweater. But that was _before_. Now Bucky’s skittish and wary, and Steve doesn’t want to make it worse so gives him his space. They haven’t touched in days, not that Steve’s counting.

(Steve is very much counting.)

“Oh Steve,” he hears Natasha’s honeyed tone from the bar, effectively distracting him from his mauldin thoughts and Bucky’s thousand-yard stare. She’s holding a bundle of something green and red and white, and the culprit for Bucky’s hideous sweater becomes abundantly clear.

“Don’t even think that you can escape the tradition this year, Captain Rogers!” No one else manages to say ‘Captain Rogers’ with as much sweet disdain as Natasha.

He’d managed to avoid the common room, well all of the Tower, last year by the grace of being in the ass-end of Belarus hunting for Bucky. This year there is no such excuse. He takes a breath and smiles at her. If she’s managed to wrestle Bucky into a sweater, the least Steve can do is to play along as well.

When he unfolds bundled fabric from her hands, he comes face to face with the grumpiest looking pug he has ever seen. It’s also wearing a Santa hat. It doesn’t seem to be improving the pug’s mood in the slightest.

“Don’t be shy, Rogers!” Natasha croons gleefully. She pokes and prods at him until he pulls off his sensible navy sweater and pulls on the monstrosity she’s handed him.

The sweater is tight, _too tight_ , and he can see from the reflection it the dark window that the pug’s face is stretched wide over his chest. It looks even angrier now, and Natasha is struggling, and failing, to hold in her laughter. “When you win, Rogers, you’re sharing your victory with me!” she cackles maniacally.

Natasha, on the other hand, is wearing a relatively tasteful green sweater with a black outline of a smiling Santa asking ‘WHERE MY HO’S AT?’. Somehow he’s not surprised. She is, after all, the mastermind of this strange holiday tradition at the Tower.

Steve lets out a sigh of relief as Tony and Pepper arrive. Tony’s sweater could otherwise be considered a relatively normal red-and-white number with a snowflake pattern if it didn’t have a stuffed reindeer sewn on the front and back. Tony has also rigged up several lights all over the sweater that blink and twinkle obnoxiously.

“They are powered by the Arc reactor,” he proclaims proudly pointing to the offending reindeer.

Pepper, on the other hand, is wearing a lovely white cashmere sweater and beatific smile as she ignores Tony to the best of her ability.

“Pepper!” Natasha admonishes her as soon as she’s within hearing distance. “I said UGLY Christmas sweater contest.”

“I know, I know, but I was coming straight off the flight from Shanghai and had several video conferences on the plane. I just didn’t have the time,” Pepper says with a sigh. Steve is pretty sure she’s lying through her teeth, but even Natasha is not going to call her on it. Pepper just has that effect on all of them; it’s her own brand of superpower.

Natasha is distracted from Pepper’s holiday transgression by Bruce who walks in wearing a garish green sweater. It takes Steve a moment to piece together what the three reindeer embroidered over his belly are doing. Then he wishes he hadn’t.

He looks over at Bucky who is also staring at Bruce’s sweater with a frown, and Steve shrugs at him. Bucky quickly looks away, his cheeks coloring. Natasha, on the other hand, claps her hands in glee, while Tony pulls Bruce into an overly-enthusiastic side-hug.

“You trying to say something there, Brucy-bear? You, me, Pepper, the twinkling lights of the Tower?” And then he’s winking salaciously, until Pepper hits him over the head with the palm of her hand.

She turns to speak to Bruce, “Please ignore him, the sweater is absolutely hideous and you are bound to win.”

Bruce gives them both an uncomfortable smile and tries to slowly edge towards the bar. Probably to drown his embarrassment in booze, even though Steve is pretty sure it doesn’t work on him either.

Clint ambles up from the stairway next. His red sweater with a ninja snowman is relatively tame in comparison. They all grab beers from the bar, and Steve makes sure to get one for Bucky too, placing it in front of him at the table, only to be met with another deep frown.

“It’s just beer, Buck,” he tries with a smile. Eventually, after much consideration, Bucky grabs the bottle with his left hand, and takes a swig.

“Tastes weak,“ is his dry assessment, to which Steve can only shrug again. “Yeah, pal. Everything is after the serum.”

Sam shows up not much later with a red sweater with four strange green creatures on the chest. At Steve’s perplexed expression he exclaims “Teenage mutant ninja turtles are a 90s classic, man!” But that doesn’t really explain anything for Steve.

Tony, though, high-fives him shouting “Cowabunga!”, which Steve is pretty sure means nothing, but Sam is laughing.

“Thought you’re a bit too old for Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in their heyday, Stark?”

“What? I did a lot of weed at MIT and watched that show! I want no judgement on my youthful follies, bridy!”

Pepper just rolls her eyes and grabs another cocktail from the bar. There is a whole host of them pre-prepared for the party. She’s got the drink halfway to her mouth when they all hear and feel the sudden thunder that shakes the top floors of the Tower, the windows rattling loudly. It’s strange contrast to the steady snowfall swirling outside.

Bucky’s up and out of the couch faster than the blink of an eye, his SIG Sauer drawn and pointing towards the door. Steve had hoped that Bucky would have stopped carrying in the Tower by now, but he’s not surprised.

“Buck, it’s okay, just Thor coming from Asgard,” Steve tells him.

Bucky harrumphs, but lowers the gun. He doesn’t holster it in the back of his pants until Thor bounds down the stairs with his customary endless enthusiasm.

“Friends! Fellow Avengers! Happy Solstice!” he bellows. Thor’s wearing a grey sweater with a picture of a unicorn with a red nose and he proclaims it to be “The horse of his people,” when Natasha asks. Everyone takes that with the same level of suspicion considering the twinkle in Thor’s eye.

To both Steve and Bruce’s delight Thor hasn’t come empty handed, having brought a round of Asgardian liquor for each of them. Steve looks for Bucky, wondering if he would enjoy it too, but he seems to have moved off the couch and is now hunkered near the window looking out to the sparkling lights of New York.

Steve so wants to ask if it’s sparking any memories, but he doesn’t. That would be selfish. Selfish and greedy, no matter how much his heart is breaking by the distance between them and by those flat, guarded looks Bucky gives him these days.

Instead, Steve turns back to Thor and Bruce and his drink, which for once, manages to give him a light buzz.

An hour later dinner is served by the frighteningly assiduous staff of the Tower, and as if by accident, the seat next to Bucky is left free for Steve. He knows it’s nothing of the sort, and he can’t help the affection swelling in his chest for his friends and their quiet way of trying to help.

He takes his seat, feeling the heat of Bucky’s body next to his, but he doesn’t lean in to touch. Not being selfish, he reminds himself. From this close, he can see how greasy Bucky’s hair is getting again. Bucky’s pulled it back into a bun today, maybe trying to hide its condition for the party.

Steve’s aware of Bucky’s dislike of showers, he’d picked up as much in the team gym after practice and the grim way Bucky had always looked after a particularly dusty mission. It’s not that Bucky is untidy, anything but. Steve knows he takes good care of his clothing and has caught Bucky several times brushing his hair with the boar-bristle brush Pepper had given him when they first moved in.

Steve knows that he probably shouldn’t be getting involved, but he wants to help, in his own clumsy way. So, when Natasha had suggested a trip to a perfumery a few weeks ago, he had readily agreed. He’d thought such places no longer existed, replaced by malls and supermarkets and drugstores. Now it seems that they have become the privilege of the rich.

He’d stood around most of that trip feeling like a particularly clumsy bull in a china shop, trying to not to touch anything, while Natasha conversed with the army of shop assistants who had shown up as soon as they’d entered the boutique. She had had the custom-made items artfully gift wrapped in an elegant box at the end of their visit. The box still in Steve’s room, waiting for Christmas morning.

At the table, Steve catches Bucky pressing a lock of hair behind his ear again, fidgeting, stealthily gazing at everyone at the table to see if anyone is looking. He catches Steve’s eye and flushes, and suddenly Steve doesn’t want to wait. Tomorrow morning seems like too far away. Too long to make his friend feel like this.

He excuses himself with a bland apology and makes his way back to his apartment. _Their_ apartment. Everything is dark and the lights of the Christmas tree shine brightly from the living room. He grabs the gift from his room and walks down the corridor, pushing the last door open. It’s not locked, it’s never locked.

Bucky’s bedroom is neat and tidy, and completely void of any personal touches. Steve hasn’t really been in there before, besides a few muted conversations by the door. Even with the unlocked door, he hasn’t gone in; he’d wanted it to be a safe space for Bucky.

Now that he thinks of it, he hasn’t really ever been inside the guest room at all, even before Bucky had moved in. He’d always just assumed that it was the same as his room. A carbon copy. When he gets to the ensuite bathroom Steve realizes how wrong he’d been.

Unlike his own ensuite, this one is slightly smaller, and most glaringly only has a shower. A wide, white shower cubicle with multiple heads and array of shampoos. It looks pretty luxurious, but Steve can imagine it appearing to Bucky as anything but.

How had he not checked this? Steve berates himself, fingers digging into the pretty gift box until the sides of it cracks under the pressure.

He’d thought there was a bathtub in here. He and Natasha had thought that some nice bath salts, bubbles, and a pair of scented candles might help a bit. She’d talked about self-care, and luxuries that had made a difference to her, back then. Back when she defected, feeling like nothing of her really belonged to herself. Steve had been grateful for her quiet insight, her willingness to help, even with her history with the Winter Soldier.

For a moment he thinks about asking Jarvis to swap their rooms, but that wouldn’t happen tonight and he needs to do something. Right this moment.

He tears into his own bathroom, starts to tidy the counters as much as possible, laying out the presents as well as he can. Getting some fresh, fluffy towels from the cupboard and lighting the candles. It looks nice, inviting even, he thinks. Now it’s just the matter of how to approach this suggestion with Bucky.

Bucky doesn’t like talking. That had been made abundantly clear after a few miserable attempts at therapy. The final therapist had a gun drawn to his face, even when everyone could have sworn Bucky was unarmed. Even Natasha had no idea where he’d hidden it. For now, they all try and get Bucky integrated into life in the Tower by example. Hence, Christmas parties and team dinners.

It’s not going terribly, but sometimes Steve feels out of his depth, so lost as to how to help his friend. It doesn’t help that Bucky tends to follow any suggestion Steve makes like it’s an order. He’s had to become rather creative with his wording, and he doesn’t want something simple like taking bath to become an order, or something that Bucky dreads the same way he seems to dread showers already.

Maybe he can just show Bucky the bathroom and let him decide.

With his mind made up, Steve returns to the common room and to the dinner that’s still in full swing. Bucky’s sour expression hasn’t lessened even a fraction by the time Steve gets back to his seat at the table. The expression remains, even as Bucky looks to be at least on his fourth helping of mashed potatoes if the dent in the bowl in front of him is anything to go by. The walrus on his sweater, on the other hand, looks as happy as ever.

The rest of the dinner passes in a nervous blur, even the display of several pies can’t pull Steve’s anxious thoughts way from how he can approach this thing with Bucky. He tries to arrange the words, those sentences in his head, but to no avail.

In the end he just ends up stammering uncertainly as they make their way to to the elevator, “I got something for you – I mean, if you want to use it. You don’t have to –” He trails off at Bucky’s sceptical look.

“I’ll just show you, and then you can decide,” he says nodding. Bucky says nothing, standing stiffly and quietly next to him as the elevator descends. Steve forces himself to stand still, his hands desperately wanting to fidget with the hem of the horrible sweater.

Natasha had demanded that everyone come back at midnight for the announcement of the winner of the ugly Christmas sweater contest. There would also be ice cream, hot toddies, and movies.

When they finally get into the apartment after what feels like an hour-long elevator ride, Steve leads Bucky into his bedroom, and towards the ensuite. The candles have filled the bathroom with a subtle scent, their light flickering on the tile walls. An universe away from a HYDRA lab, Steve’s traitorous mind supplies. Or so he hopes. He steals a glance at Bucky and his inscrutable expression.

“I just thought – I mean, I just realized, that your bathroom doesn’t have a bathtub,” he finishes lamely.

Bucky is staring at the the huge bathtub that fills one of the corners of the room. Steve’s laid the fancy shampoos and bath salts and other crap Natasha had insisted he get on the rim of the tub.

“Is it – okay?” Steve hedges after a while.

After a long moment Bucky nods. He doesn’t look upset, or have that blank obedient look Steve has learned to watch out for.

“Great! Okay, great!” Steve exclaims. He starts the taps running, adjusting the water temperature to nice and hot. When he turns around Bucky is already mechanically stripping out of his clothes.

“What! Wait, no!” Steve shouts before he can stop himself and Bucky freezes, his t-shirt halfway-off. His eyes are wide and startled.

“Sorry, sir,” he says and Steve winces. “No, it’s okay, sorry. You just startled me is all.”

Bucky still doesn’t move, frozen with the shirt off one shoulder. Steve can see him breathing from the way the muscles on his stomach and side move. It’s really very distracting.

“You can carry on, it’s okay,” Steve mutters, feeling like the biggest heel, and Bucky slowly starts to peel the t-shirt fully off. He works his jeans and underwear down his legs pretty quickly, and then falling into parade rest. Naked.

Steve tries not to stare. It’s not like they haven’t seen each other like that before. With living together, and the war there wasn’t much need for modesty, but this feels different, and Bucky looks different too. He’s known about the arm from the files, seen its capabilities in the training arena, and on the helicarrier before that, but this is the first time he’s seen it totally bare. The first time he’s really had to consider it as a part of Bucky, see where the body and metal join.

He chucks a fair amount of bath salts into the water to distract himself from all the stark naked Bucky behind him. The box had promised to soothe and relax tired muscles. Steve’s not so sure about that claim, but it makes the gently steaming water smell nice.

“Okay, that’s ready now, you can get in.”

Bucky looks at the bath cautiously for a second and then moves to get in. His whole body seems to sag as he gets his first foot into the water, and then he’s climbing in and sitting down with a strange sort of haste.

His skin glistens from the steam and the flickering light of the candles and Steve has to tell his dick to behave. That’s not what Bucky needs, or even wants from him.

“The shampoos and soaps and things are on the ledge, there,” Steve says, pointing to the little cubby built into the wall where he’d piled everything to get them out of the way. “Feel free to use as much as you like. They’re all for you. I’ll leave you to it, alright?”

He’s about to stand up when a wet hand closes around his wrist.

“Don’t,” Bucky says. He’s not looking at Steve, eyes focused on the tiled wall, his shoulders suddenly tense. “Don’t leave.” The hesitant tone breaks Steve’s heart all over again.

“Okay, I won’t,” he says, sitting himself back down on the bathmat. “I’ll stay right here, pal.”

Bucky lets go of his wrist, returning his hand under the bubbles, lapping the water with his palm, seemingly happy enough to just sit in the warm water. It feels like a small victory. Steve pulls off the horrible pug sweater in the heat of the bathroom, glad to be rid of it finally.

They sit in the quiet for a while, disturbed only by the steady sound of Bucky’s breathing, the way he minutely shifts his body in the water, runs his hands over his knees and calves.

Steve thinks about maybe getting a book, something to take his mind away from all that naked skin on display, when Bucky’s suddenly handing him the shampoo bottle, shoving it into Steve’s hands insistently.

“You want me to wash your hair?” Steve asks, bewildered for a moment.

“Please,” Bucky says, still not looking at him, shoulders stiff and defensive again, pulled up around his ears.

“Of course, pal,” Steve says, and tries to hide the tremble in his hands. He’s fumbling with the bottle, when Bucky suddenly asks, “Can you get in here with me?”

There’s a forced nonchalance in his words, and Steve knows that there’s only one right answer to this question.

“Okay,” he says.

He strips quickly, trying to not think about exactly what he’s doing, and again ordering his dick to behave itself. It’s starting to get all sorts of inappropriate ideas about a naked, wet Bucky.

Bucky had never known about that, about his feelings. At least he’d never said anything, and Steve wants to keep it that way. Bucky doesn’t need Steve piling his hopeless, endless infatuation at his feet, especially not now. What Bucky needs is a friend who will look out for him, look after him. Even if it means getting naked into a tub together and rubbing shampoo into his hair.

That thought really isn’t helping the dick situation at all.

Bucky scoots forward, making space in the tub, giving Steve a shy look from over his shoulder. Steve tries to smile as he climbs behind Bucky into the tub. The water is hot and smells faintly of lavender from the bath salts. It’s actually really nice, Steve thinks. He should do this by himself sometime too.

Bucky’s back glistens in the low light, and Steve can see the faint outlines of scars and pockmarks this close when he allows himself to look. He doesn’t want to think how deep they must have been, how many times they must have been cut in order not to heal.

Instead of thinking of that, Steve unhooks the shower attachment and turns it on, testing the water, his eyes prickling. Bucky doesn’t need his tears either, nor his pity. He runs his hand gently over Bucky’s hair, and he tilts his head back like he’s been waiting for the touch. He’s humming softly in the back of his throat.

Steve works up the shampoo into a lather, massaging his fingers into Bucky’s scalp, working the stands. Bucky makes low, pleased noises and Steve can’t help but smile. For the first time in a long time he feels like he’s doing the right thing. Giving Bucky something that is actually making him happy.

He gives special attention to the tendons at the base of Bucky’s head, digging his thumbs into the back of Bucky’s skull until Bucky’s resting all of his weight on Steve’s hands. Limp and relaxed, his pink mouth open.

Steve turns on the shower head attachment again, gently rinsing the suds away, carding through the wet strands with his fingers. Bucky follows his movements, as if trying to keep Steve’s hands in contact with his head as long as possible.

Steve catches the sight of an unused loofah, sitting in on the edge of the tub in the corner. On impulse he grabs it and lathers it up with one of the fancy soaps that smells like herbs. He’s never even thought to use it, even on himself in the shower. It looks like it might feel nice.

Bucky lets out a strangled moan as Steve runs the loofah over his shoulders and down his spine. Steve tries to not let the sound get to him, tries to not think of all the other things he could be doing to elicit that kind of sounds from Bucky. He’d lost the battle with his dick a while ago, which is now rock hard, jutting up against his belly. He just has to make sure to keep his hips away from Bucky.

It doesn’t take long to lather Bucky’s back. and when Steve lifts his hand away, Bucky reaches back, lightning-quick, and puts Steve’s hand back where it was. He’s not looking at Steve, face tight and maybe a bit scared. Mouth closed into a thin line.

Steve runs the loofah over Bucky’s shoulders again, and back over the top of his spine. Bucky hums, a pleased sound, and pushes back into Steve’s touch.

For the first time since Bucky had come back, it occurs to Steve that no one touches Bucky, not even Steve. Everyone avoids him, keeping a careful distance, respectful, scared. And now Bucky’s pushing into his touch like it’s sunshine. Seve places his other hand on Bucky’s side, feeling the in-and-out of his breath, and Bucky seems to sag, pressing into the contact. His breathing wheezes out slowly, like he’s trying to control it.

Steve puts the loofah on the side of the tub, still dripping with water and soap suds, and places his hands, both of them, on Bucky’s back. It’s not really massage, he doesn’t know how to do that properly. Instead, he just touches, runs his hands up and down Bucky’s spine, rubs over his shoulder blades and ribs, the dip of his lower back deep in the hot bath water. Bucky hums, sounding pleased, and presses back into Steve’s hands again. The weight of him is solid against Steve’s palms.

After a while, Bucky takes Steve’s wrist and pulls it around his chest, inching back to press their bodies flush together. Chest to back. Steve freezes, trying to scoot away but runs out of room in the tub. Bucky doesn’t seem to mind, just pulls Steve’s hand tighter around his waist and relaxes against Steve’s body, hard cock and all. Steve’s thighs flex with the urge to _not_ rub his cock against Bucky’s lower back, to _not_ run his hands down Bucky’s belly and feel if he’s…if he’s similarly affected.

Bucky just shimmies closer and closes his eyes once he’s rested his head against Steve’s collarbone. Steve hugs him tight, pressing his cheek tight to Bucky’s temple, and closes his own eyes. Willing himself not to cry.

He’s too afraid to admit, to think of, how he’s suddenly getting everything he’s dreamed of for years and years, so he just pushes those thoughts away, breathing in the scent of Bucky and the aroma of the bath salts in the air.

Slowly the water starts to cool around them, and Steve nudges Bucky to move. He’s pretty sure Bucky isn’t sleeping but he makes a grumpy noise anyway, shifting to sit upright, peeling his back away from Steve’s chest.

“Come on, Buck, there’s eggnog in the fridge and stupid Christmas movies on Netflix.”

Bucky grumbles some more objections, but gets up from the bath anyway with a smooth shift of his body. Steve catches sight of him from the mirror as Bucky pulls one of the towels off the counter and dries himself. He takes in the long line of his body, the gleaming silver arm and his turgid cock, hard and standing out from his pelvis. Bucky doesn’t seem embarrassed by it, drying and wrapping the towel around his waist like nothing is amiss.

The whole thing makes Steve blush, his suspicions confirmed. Instead of doing anything about it though, he grabs sweatpants and t-shirts and two soft hoodies from his closet. On a whim, he also pulls out a pair of soft fluffy socks someone had given him once, maybe Bruce. He doesn’t want Bucky’s feet to get cold.

Steve catches glimpses of Bucky from the corner of his eye as he dresses, avidly watching what he can. There’s something primal and possessive in the pit of his belly that loves seeing Bucky wearing his clothing. The way they don’t fit him _quite_ right, like it’s obvious that they are borrowed.

To stop himself from doing something drastic, like dragging Bucky off into his bedroom, and kissing him senseless, Steve escapes to the kitchen and to the overfilled fridge. He picks up the jug of eggnog and a wrapped plate of apple turnovers. They’re star-shaped for the holidays, and filled with cinnamon cream.

There’s some very expensive whisky in the eggnog, or so Tony had claimed, not that it does anything for either one of them, but the taste is nice. Steve places two big mugs on the coffee table, and loads up something inane and Christmassy on the big TV, letting it play almost on silent.

He’s barely half-sitting on the couch holding one of the blankets, asking “Bucky, do you want to –,” when Bucky is already crawling into his lap, almost rolling Steve underneath himself and pressing him into the cushions. Getting as close as possible for two super soldiers can be on a fairly large couch.

It turns out to be really fucking close. Bucky smells like the fancy soap and like himself too. Hair wet and curling around his face. Bucky pushes his pelvis, and his clearly hard dick, into Steve’s hand. “Feels good,” he mumbles against Steve’s clavicle.

“Buck–, Bucky, can I – can I kiss you?” The words are barely out his mouth when Bucky’s reaching up and slotting their mouths together. It’s inelegant and messy at first, both of them too frantic and nervous to be anything but a mess of tongue and teeth, but it’s perfect, it’s everything Steve could have ever wanted, and he can’t help but pant desperately against Bucky’s lips.

Bucky’s huffing impatiently, still insistently grinding his dick against Steve’s hip. Chanting “Come on, come on,” into Steve’s mouth. Steve gets the sweatpants down around Bucky’s thighs with a minor struggle. _Jesus fucking Christ, no underwear_ ; he can’t help but think as his hands feel the hot flesh of Bucky’s naked hip, and then his hand is on Bucky’s cock. He’s solid and big, a beading of wetness on the head where Steve runs his thumb over the foreskin.

Bucky’s grunting something unintelligible, and if his uneven breath is any indication, he’s not going to last long as Steve gives him a slow, steady stroke.

Bucky’s hands are scrambling at the front of Steve’s own sweatpants, clearly determined to take Steve with him. Frantic and endearingly uncoordinated in his motions. Steve doesn’t think it’s going to take that long for him either; he’s been hard and ready to blow since the bathtub. Finally Bucky’s grabbing him tight, giving him a long pull from root to tip, and Steve moans his approval into Bucky’s mouth.

They’re not really kissing anymore, mostly just breathing and grunting and moaning into each other’s mouths, unwilling to stop touching even for a second. Both of their hands on each other’s cock’s, not really knowing what they’re doing, and it’s so good.

Bucky comes first, spilling wet and hot against Steve’s hoodie, soft little mewls against Steve’s lips as his hips jerk and his thighs clamp down around Steve’s leg. Afterwards, he’s even more determined to get Steve off, both of his hands suddenly between Steve’s legs. The smooth metal fingers tugging at his tight, drawn-up balls.

“Bucky, Bucky,” Steve moans as he comes over his own hoodie too, heels digging into the couch cushions, fucking into the tight ring of Bucky’s fist.

Steve pulls off the hoodie and cleans them up the best he can with it, throwing it balled-up somewhere behind the couch. He’ll take it to them hamper later, a lot later, he thinks as he pulls Bucky into his chest, petting his shoulders, fingers carding the shorter hair at the back of his skull.

“Merry Christmas, Steve,” Bucky whispers, and Steve isn’t sure if he was even supposed to hear it.

He answers anyway. “Merry Christmas, pal, been the best one yet,” and kisses the side of Bucky’s face. Bucky turns just a fraction, and they’re kissing again. It’s still messy and uncoordinated, but Steve doesn’t care. Bucky tastes just like himself, just like Steve had always imagined he would and he can’t, won’t stop kissing.

They fall asleep on the couch without meaning to, missing Natasha’s several insistent text messages to come and find out the winner of the ugly Christmas sweater contest at midnight.

(It’s Bruce, to Tony’s horror and dismay.)

They don’t know that she sneaks into the apartment with suitable revenge on her mind for missing on the contest, but leaves them to sleep with a smile on her lips.

They wake up with sore necks and stiff backs on Christmas morning with the lights of New York blanketed in several feet of white fluffy snow, the city ground to a halt. Later in the day there will be snowball fights on the roof garden and even more food, but right here and now, there’s nothing but sour morning kisses and whispered confessions that have waited eighty years to be said out loud.


End file.
